


Relief

by StarlightOnInk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, RusAme, Stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightOnInk/pseuds/StarlightOnInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although it does not provide an immediate solution, sometimes a good cry can provide the strength to get through. A caring shoulder to lean can be the final key to finding strength. When Russia feels overwhelmed, America provides the comfort he never felt he deserved. RusAme oneshot. Warning for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an angst prompt on tumblr; it asked for something based around the line “it’s okay to cry.” Reviews are more than welcome!

America had taken to observing Russia’s actions quite a bit as of late. Being in such close quarters as the Allies shared strategies over the war made such a task easy. It was not the same closeness they once had; that had been the tender looks shared by those who had only each other in this harsh world. Things had changed, however, and put a strain on that relationship that made what America was doing now closer to careful observance rather than anything else.

 

Even so, it didn’t stop him from noticing the more ugly things going on behind the scenes. For instance, he knew Russia did not like being near his own boss, saw how he cringed away from him, and how pained his smile looked- the smile of a man desperately hoping that if he wore it enough, he might fool himself into thinking he was happy, that everything was okay.

 

But things had gotten…bad. Very bad. Each day seemed to bring a new strain. Russia barely spoke at meals, opting to let his boss dictate his opinions. When his boss went to leave, Russia never lingered, though it was plain he so wanted to- anything to be near others he actually shared some friendship with. But he merely rose and trailed behind, as though pulled by invisible strings. America was certain he could be heard sniffling a lot, as though getting over a cold. But he knew it was no cold doing this to him.

 

Then, one night, something snapped.

 

America probably should not have heard, should have kept on his way and left it alone, minded his own business. His and Russia’s quarters were so close, it was inevitable he’d overhear some things.

 

He couldn’t make out everything, but there was no mistaking the tone. Russia’s boss was berating him. Again. America paused, inching toward the door. So far he had not heard Russia speak up once- no, wait, that was him now. America’s mastery of the Russian language was hard from perfect, but he thought he heard the words for “not weak.” At this, his boss gave a disbelieving snort. Then, something…about… “no one wants” and…drawing the short straw?

 

The tone shifted slightly, became more dismissive, and America had a split second as a rustle came from behind the door- he did not even realize he had his ear pressed to the wood- and had just composed himself when the door burst open and Russia hurried out, looking shaken. He was halfway down the hall before he turned abruptly and noticed America was there.

 

“Ah, good evening,” Russia said, voice breaking.

 

“Hey,” America said, more as a question than a greeting. “You…you okay?”

 

“Of course I am- why would I not be? I am not some, some-” Russia’s eyes darted around, as if searching the air for the write word. His gaze landed on the door he had just vacated, and he quickly turned on heel, tossing America a quick glance in invitation to follow before retreating further from the room.

 

“I never said you were,” America assured as he sped after him. They wove their way through the halls, not stopping until they were well away from that room. “Why would you think that?” America pressed.

 

“No reason,” Russia muttered weakly, fishing around in his pocket for a cigarette. “Simply want it to be known.”

 

Mechanically, America pulled out a lighter. Russia cast him a quick glance, before extending his cigarette, which America promptly lit.

 

“Spasibo.”

 

“Anytime,” America said, pulling out one of his own. They stayed like that for some time, America staring carefully at Russia’s face, Russia keeping his gaze fixed on the floor, his eyes distant, tired…hurt.

 

“Hey, uh,” America began, wishing his voice did not sound so uncertain. “Did some- something happened, didn’t it?” He would give Russia no chance to deny.

 

Violet eyes roved slowly over his face. “Nothing new,” Russia said after a pause. His voice was hollow.

 

America’s heart twisted. “What did he say?” he asked in hushed tones.

 

Russia quickly looked away. “He just wants me to remain strong, to make sure I do not…fall short of his standards. That…” his voice broke.

 

“What did he say, Russia?” America prompted, voice leaving no room for argument.

 

“America, really, this does not-”

 

“You haven’t looked this miserable for so long in ages. What’s that bastard telling you?”

 

Russia’s face turned chalk white and his eyes darted around worriedly. “Please do not pursue this,” he whispered.

 

“Russia-”

 

“He said no one wants a weak country! That he regrets having drawn the short straw, that I need so much work, that everyone else is luckier, no one would want to be with me if they knew how weak I was, that I-I…” He clamped his mouth shut, shaking like a leaf. He looked determinedly anywhere but at America, already feeling he had said too much. That became very difficult to do, however, as warm, strong arms wrapped him in a tight embrace.

 

America felt Russia stiffen in his arms, but refused to let go. His insides were churning angrily; he could hardly imagine what Russia had been feeling all these nights. America remembered, before the revolution, laying beneath the stars, sharing secrets and dreams…he knew Russia’s fear of being alone, his wishes of being wanted. He himself had shared his fear of losing his freedom, of not being able to choose for himself, of being controlled.

 

And that monster was using such knowledge to hit Russia where it hurt most.

 

Russia shook violently in his embrace, taking long, heaving breaths.

 

“Ivan,” Alfred whispered, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder blades. “Vanya…it’s okay to cry.”

 

“I can’t,” Ivan choked, trying and failing to steady his breathing. “I can’t…I need to be stronger than this. No one will want me-”

 

“I want you to have some relief,” America cut in. “You’ll go insane keeping this all in. It won’t fix everything, but it’ll help you get through it. Just let it out…”

 

And at long last, Russia wept. Thick arms snaked their way up America’s back as Russia’s legs gave out from under him, kept standing only by Alfred’s embrace. Alfred let him cry, swaying gently as he ran his fingers through his hair, muttering into his ear: “And don’t you listen to him for one second. He’s wrong, he’s _so_ wrong. I know it, we all know it.” Ivan sobbed, saying more of the things he had been told, the belittling, the hurt, the fear. As he did so, a weight seemed to ease from his shoulders, and the air spilling into his lungs felt all the clearer. His head rested heavily on America’s shoulder as his breathing evened out. And Alfred had been right. He would still need to face his boss’s cruelty…but for now…he felt…renewed.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered into the wheat blond locks.

 

“Anytime, beautiful,” America promised.


End file.
